


Gold Dust Soldier

by robocryptid



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: 5 Times, Age Difference, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Angst and Feels, Blackwatch Jesse McCree, Deadlock Jesse McCree, M/M, Pining, Pre-Recall, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 14:34:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17143544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robocryptid/pseuds/robocryptid
Summary: Jesse’s head hurts like hell and his mouth tastes like iron, and he’s busy tonguing his teeth to make sure they’re all still there when the door opens and some six-foot-something wall of muscle walks in, looking like no cop Jesse’s ever seen before. He’s a hell of a lot scarier, for one, manages to radiate this lethaldon’t fuck with meaura with a kind of ease Jesse’s been trying to cultivate for a while now. He’s hotter too, and Jesse was gonna try it anyway but that makes this a whole lot easier.He eyes the guy up and down, smiles the lazy inviting smile that’s worked a handful of times before, and he manages not to wince when he feels a split in his lip open right back up. “Don’t normally like the taste of pig, but for you? I can make an exception. ’Specially if you get these offa me.” Jesse shakes his wrists, and the handcuffs’ jingle sounds a lot like his spurs.The guy just snorts at him then looks up at the corner of the room behind him, and Jesse realizes there's probably a camera back there. “Someone get a mirror so I can show this kid what he looks like right now.”





	Gold Dust Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> It seems that if enough people ask me my thoughts on a pairing, I will eventually have thoughts on that pairing. Featuring a whole lot of indulgent angst and head canons, including that this pairing is not an "endgame" sort of pairing. I think I gave them both a fair shake, but I don't think it's a McReyes Live Happily Ever After sort of story, if that's what you're looking for.
> 
> If you're interested at all in my take on the classic "Gabe drags Jesse in from Deadlock" scene, that's pretty much genfic and it's Part I.
> 
> Big thanks to [CorvidFightClub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorvidFightClub/pseuds/CorvidFightClub) for suggesting the title!

I.

 

The first time Jesse tries something, he’s sitting in an interrogation room with his hands cuffed to the table in front of him.

His head hurts like hell and his mouth tastes like iron, and he’s busy tonguing his teeth to make sure they’re all still there when the door opens and some six-foot-something wall of muscle walks in, looking like no cop Jesse’s ever seen before. He’s a hell of a lot scarier, for one, manages to radiate this lethal _don’t fuck with me_ aura with a kind of ease Jesse’s been trying to cultivate for a while now. He’s hotter too, and Jesse was gonna try it anyway but that makes this a whole lot easier.

He eyes the guy up and down, smiles the lazy inviting smile that’s worked a handful of times before, and he manages not to wince when he feels a split in his lip open right back up. “Don’t normally like the taste of pig, but for you? I can make an exception. ’Specially if you get these offa me.” Jesse shakes his wrists, and the handcuffs’ jingle sounds a lot like his spurs.

The guy just snorts at him then looks up at the corner of the room behind him, and Jesse realizes there's probably a camera back there. “Someone get a mirror so I can show this kid what he looks like right now.” He looks at Jesse again, lip curled just a little. “And clean him up.”

Jesse knows he’s sneering right back now; he knows how to sweet talk his way out of trouble most times, but it’s a chore trying to hide how much he hates cops. And this one’s made it real clear that sweet talk won’t work anyway. Jesse’s a quick study, and this guy’s already told him he’s not the crooked kind. Something in Jesse’s gut says he’s not the kind that’s just here to wave his dick around either. No swagger to the way he carries himself; it’s all casual, like he doesn’t give two shits whether Jesse’s intimidated or not, and truth be told that’s what _makes_ it a little intimidating. Jesse doesn’t know how to work with this type. Can’t bribe him, can’t rile him up until he cracks, can’t appeal to his softer side ’cause he doesn’t seem to have one.

Jesse’s stuck and he knows it.

He resists the urge to sink into his seat though. Now that the guy’s pointed it out, Jesse can suddenly feel how much dirt’s under his fingernails, how much grime’s got to be caked onto his face, how much his hair’s sticking to his forehead. He makes himself sit up straight and proud anyway. They might’ve caught him, but they can’t say he didn’t put up a hell of a fight. He wonders if the ones he shot are dead or just bleeding.

He wonders how many Deadlocks got away. Wonders if anybody’s coming for him, or if they’re gonna leave him to rot. Somebody coldclocked him before the fighting was done. No telling how long he was out. No telling what it looked like to the others, if any others escaped to tell the story at all. _No man left behind_ only means something if they know you’re alive.

He knows better than to ask though. Instead he bides his time, looking up at this guy who’s just watching him right back. It makes the back of Jesse’s neck prickle the way it does when a fight’s about to break out. He digs his fingers hard into his palms and grits his teeth until his jaw hurts.

Neither of them break the silence, but a woman comes in, in another uniform that’s nothing like a cop’s. “Couldn’t find a mirror, sir,” she says stiffly, like she’d salute if her hands weren’t full, and the guy smirks a little as he tells her it’s no problem. She’s got a bowl and a handful of rags though, and she descends on Jesse with them. She’s detached about it like she’s cleaning some object, not a person, but she’s gentle enough. It brings back old, uncomfortable memories of his mama doing this when he was too little to wipe his own snot. It’s humiliating is what it is, and Jesse jerks his head only to find her grip tightening in his hair. He tries to make a joke out of that, see if he can get her to squirm, but she just wipes the rag over his mouth. The sting in his split lip and taste of soap and dirt is unpleasant enough that it shuts him right up.

When she’s done, she drops the last rag into her bowl of water, and Jesse sees just how many streaks of black and brown and rust red there are, and he refuses to be grateful because he knows it was all some fucked up power play. Still, it doesn’t feel awful not to be covered in shit, even if his cheeks feel tight from the washing.

The guy’s still staring at him, but there’s something else on his face now. Jesse doesn’t know what it is, and the not knowing unsettles him. It’s like the more unnerved Jesse gets, the more relaxed this guy gets, and Jesse’s about to start reevaluating his belief that this dude’s not the type to just wave his dick around when he finally speaks again: “How old are you” — he checks the tablet in his hands, and he snorts again — “Mr. Eastwood?”

Jesse works hard not to show how relieved that question makes him. If that’s the name they got, maybe they’ll think he’s just an errand boy. Just as fast, the thought turns his veins to ice; if they think he’s nobody, then he’s got nothing to trade. He thinks about what that particular I.D.’s got on it, and he says, “Twenty-one.”

“That so?” the guy asks, and the back of Jesse’s neck prickles again. He grills Jesse, rapid-fire: date of birth, address, middle name, year he graduated high school. Jesse answers them all just as quick. He’s got the whole thing memorized just in case, and in the back of his head his thoughts are still racing, trying to figure out how much info’s gonna be enough to get a plea deal without blowing everything for Deadlock. Then the man asks, “What’s your sign?”

“You hittin’ on me now I’m all prettied up?” Jesse asks with a reflexive grin.

He ignores Jesse’s question altogether. “What is it?”

“I don’t buy into that garbage.”

“You telling me you’ve never even used it as a line? I find that hard to believe.” And Jesse flushes just a little, because it’s true, he definitely has. “So what is it?”

He has no idea what Eastwood’s sign’s supposed to be, only that it’s probably not the same as Jesse’s. “I really don’t know man. I never gave it much thought,” he says lamely, the kind of lie you only tell when you’re starting to feel a little desperate and protective of your other lies, and it’s like the guy smells blood in the water, because he leans over the table and keeps staring Jesse down.

“How old are you?” he asks again.

“Already told you,” Jesse says. “Twenty-one.”

“Are you absolutely sure about that?” the guy asks, and Jesse’s stuck staring for a minute. This guy knows he’s lying, Jesse can tell that much, but he doesn’t know what the right answer’s supposed to be.

The memory hits him hard: the day Ashe turned eighteen, she lorded it over him like it even mattered when they could drum up any fake I.D.s they needed to. She joked that Jesse was the only baby left now, that he needed to take advantage of the chance to stir up trouble while the penalty was smaller. Then she somberly followed it by announcing they couldn’t put off getting a lawyer any longer. Someone on payroll to clean up Deadlock’s messes, just in case. Jesse says, “I wanna see a lawyer,” and at the same time it strikes a funny chord, like maybe that memory was trying to tell him something else.

“That’s not what this is.”

Jesse stares for a minute, and he feels himself swallow. This guy was intimidating before, sure, but Jesse had him pegged as anything but the crooked type. If he’s gonna sidestep the rules, that’s a lot fucking scarier. “It’s my right—” Jesse starts, but he doesn’t know what else to say. Doesn’t plan on begging for anything, but doesn’t know what the hell he’s supposed to do with that.

“I’m not a cop. You wanna talk to the police, they’re right outside that door, and they would _love_ to meet you. You and I both know what’s gonna happen when they do: you get your lawyer, your lawyer advises you to take a plea bargain, and you can rat out your gang or stay loyal, but either way you’re going to prison for a very, very long time. And that’s the best case scenario. Cops don’t like cop-killers. Accidents happen.” He’s staring hard at Jesse, and Jesse still can’t read that particular expression, but he knows in his gut the man’s not wrong. He knows what happens to snitches, because he helped make those rules. And he doesn’t know how often people like him go missing or end up dead before they ever make it to trial, but he knows it’s a lot.

The handcuffs jingle again and Jesse realizes his hands are shaking. “If you ain’t a cop, what are you?” At least his voice isn’t shaking too.

The guy smirks, just the tiniest bit, and he settles into the seat across from Jesse. “If you want that answer, you need to give me some too. We’re trading. Even Stevens,” he says, like Jesse’s some little kid. “And if I like your answers, I might even have an offer for you.” His face isn’t so hard now, but it’s far from soft. “Now. How old are you?”

Jesse swallows and he tells the truth. “Seventeen.” For the first time in a very long time, he feels exactly as young as he is.

When they leave the room, Jesse’s still in handcuffs and there’s a heavy hand gripping his shoulder tight. All around him are nothing but strangers, no sign of anybody else from Deadlock. There’s a few cops in local uniforms, and Jesse’s hackles rise at the sight of them, at the bloodlust on their faces, and he realizes that he was wrong. Gabriel Reyes isn’t the shark here. He’s the one holding them at bay.

 

II.

 

The second time Jesse tries something, he’s been with Blackwatch three whole months.

It’s a damn sight better than prison, he’s sure, but it’s not exactly fun. Most folks keep their distance. Even if they aren’t all suspicious, they still don’t know what to do with him.

Reyes introduces him to Jack Morrison, who stares at Jesse with such obvious disbelief that Jesse almost laughs. Then Jesse’s left in a waiting room while Reyes and Morrison disappear behind a slamming door. He hears raised voices and what he thinks is Morrison yelling about “picking up strays” and “not a daycare” but not much else, and when Reyes emerges a few minutes later, the look on his face says the best thing Jesse can do right now is stare at his own boots while they walk. Morrison’s never mean to Jesse or anything, but it’s clear he doesn’t have much to say to him either.

Reyes introduces him to Ana Amari, and she’s actually pretty nice to him the first couple times he sees her. She laughs indulgently when Jesse flirts, the way grown women always do when they’re flattered and a little skeptical and aren’t ever gonna give him a chance. It’s kinda nice to be around that sort of predictable. But she’s not predictable, not really, and sometimes she’s scarier than Morrison and Reyes combined. When Jesse tries to get on her good side by being sweet to her daughter, the whole thing backfires. She swoops in like some avenging angel and hauls Fareeha bodily away, and she’s bristly with suspicion for days afterward. Jesse’s not sore about it exactly, but he didn’t mean anything by it, and it’s weird that after all the bad things he’s done these past few years, it’s the time he’s totally innocent that she holds against him.

“Not like I was teachin’ her how to pick pockets,” Jesse grumbles, and Reyes just pats him on the shoulder and says to give it time.

Reyes introduces him to Angela Ziegler and says she’s seventeen too, but Jesse learns fast that that’s about the only thing they have in common. She’s friendly enough, but she’s also some kind of prodigy, same age as him and already taking college classes. He doesn’t know how to talk to someone like that, and she doesn’t even flirt just to pass the time, just blinks at him like she doesn’t understand what he’s saying even though she speaks perfect English. It’s weird and stiff and there’s only so much of it he can take in one sitting, and besides, she’s always busy with something more interesting than Jesse.

It doesn’t pass him by that she gets invited to supper with the Amaris.

The only person who doesn’t seem to mind his company most of the time is Reyes himself. It’s not like he’s affectionate or anything, but the stick up his ass is only about half the size of Morrison’s, and he’s never done a face-heel turn over nothing at all like Amari, and he’s pretty damn smart, Jesse can tell, but Jesse doesn’t need a dictionary just to talk to him. He even laughs at Jesse’s jokes sometimes, which is the closest it gets to making this place feel like a home. Reyes recommends books for Jesse to read to cure the boredom, and if he makes Jesse rise at ass o’clock every morning and do everything on a schedule, if Jesse’s not allowed to hold a gun except under strict supervision, if Jesse spends more time fetching things and working out than doing any of the cool parts of this military crap, at least the routine’s put Jesse well on track to having a body more like Reyes’.

And Jesse’s thought about Reyes’ body a lot actually, and not just in the sense that he wants to _look_ like that. He’s surrounded every day by stupidly hot people, and it doesn’t really matter if some of them are a little distant or holier-than-thou or talk like genius aliens, he’s still seventeen and bored and horny. And if his spank material features Reyes more often than all the others combined, that’s not anybody else’s business.

Jesse’s biggest mistake is when he tries to make it somebody else’s business.

He’s sitting in Reyes’ office, listening to him talk again about how Jesse just needs to be patient with everyone here, how he’s the new guy and is gonna take some getting used to, and Reyes isn’t laughing at Jesse’s jokes the way he usually does, and maybe Jesse’s just tired of it. He’s less lonely than he is _bored_ , but lonely and bored are kinda the same around here, and Reyes is still hotter than the sun and the only person who regularly gives him the time of day, and it just falls out of Jesse’s mouth: “The offer still stands, you know.”

“What offer?” Reyes asks it like he’s already forgotten, and that stings a little bit.

“My mouth, your dick,” Jesse says, and Reyes goes completely and totally still, hands hovering halfway through a gesture like he’s just frozen, and it makes something weird and giddy bubble up in Jesse’s chest. “Or your mouth, my dick, but most older guys want it the other way ’round.” Reyes’ eyes are getting wider, and Jesse’s never seen him look quite like this, and he doesn’t really know what that expression is.

“Jesus,” Reyes finally says, but not in the kinda breathless way Jesse was aiming for.

Reyes kicks him out of his office, and the following day, Jesse’s got orders to take a psych eval and an appointment with a tutor to get him through his GED. It helps pass the time, if nothing else. Amari’s the one who takes him to the practice range after that, and it’s Morrison who issues the wake up calls and makes him go fetch stuff, and the two of them introduce him to Wilhelm, who’s his new gym buddy. After a while longer and a little pushing on his part, Angie loosens up a little, and she’s the one who recommends books to him. Amari gets nicer and he meets Fareeha again, this time without incident.

On his eighteenth birthday, he thinks about trying again, but somehow he’s not sure it’s gonna make a difference.

 

III.

 

The third time Jesse tries something, it’s not even deliberate.

It’s been a long fucking mission. Jesse knows that in about an hour he’ll be swaying on his feet, but for the time being he’s smoking a cigarette and checking his messages. Now that it’s safe to use comms again, Gabe’s at the window chatting quietly with Jack. Jesse does his best to tune him out, to give him the closest thing to privacy that he can under the circumstances.

Jesse’s got a few flirty texts from this guy Matteo, from back in Geneva. He works in admin at HQ and has some security clearance, so at least Jesse won’t have to lie so much to this one. He’s thinking about what to text back, how to make it clear that he’s definitely good for a date when they get back without being misleading about his intentions. The last time he let something get too serious, he learned real quick that Blackwatch and long-term relationships just don’t mix. Gabe’s voice is getting tense and a little too loud to ignore, and Jesse rolls his eyes and thinks that maybe long-term isn’t all it’s cracked up to be anyway.

He’s twenty-four. He’s got plenty of time to figure that shit out.

By the time Gabe’s off the phone, Jesse’s got a date and has sussed out that Matteo’s not really after romance so much as a few drinks before he gets laid, so he’s already feeling good even before Gabe shoves the beer in his hand. Jesse raises his bottle and Gabe clinks their drinks together. Gabe steals one of Jesse’s smokes, and Jesse tosses him the lighter. All the motions are thoughtless, instinctual. Might as well be a ritual by now.

They don’t always run missions just the two of them, but if Gabe’s gonna trust just one person to watch his back, it’s gonna be Jesse. Gabe hand-picked him, had a hand in every part of Jesse’s training even when it was indirect. And whatever Jesse’s pride says, Gabe caught him early enough in his career that Jesse didn’t have too many bad habits baked in yet. Gabe’s been molding Jesse into exactly what he needs for the past seven years, and Jesse’s willingly gone along with it, because as soon as he wisened up enough to see it and quit dicking around, he realized that nine times out of ten, what Gabe says is good for him actually is.

So of _course_ Jesse’s the go-to. It’s practical. Good strategy. But Jesse likes to think it’s more than that. He likes to think they’re friends now, that Gabe actually trusts him. Jesse might not get the privilege of calling all the shots, but he’s seen the way Gabe’s shoulders sag under the weight of it all, and he thinks right-hand man suits him just fine.

They’re a couple beers in, just shooting the shit, when Gabe’s comm beeps at him. He glances down then grimaces, flips the comm facedown.

Jesse normally doesn’t pry, so he doesn’t know what comes over him that makes him ask, “Trouble in paradise?”

Gabe looks at him sidelong and there’s a tic in his jaw. “ETA two hours. Time for a nap if you need one.” Jesse rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything else, just pushes the pack of cigarettes Gabe’s way. He’s not gonna sleep until they’re in the air, no matter how tired he is, and Gabe knows that. He’s just putting Jesse off of poking at his sore spots.

Gabe and Jack argue all the damn time these days. Jesse doesn’t know much about how people make things last, but looking at Gabe now, it seems like more effort than it’s worth. The old man looks so _tired_. And it’s a shame, because Gabe’s usually right and Jack just won’t see it, least from the parts Jesse’s overheard. But maybe that kind of thinking’s why Jack’s gone from his usual lukewarm to downright rude to Jesse lately. If Jesse were in Jack’s shoes—

Jesse sets his jaw and tries to shove that thought right back where it came from, back to the weird, walled off place where he stores all the stuff he doesn’t like to examine too closely. It won’t go quietly, and he can feel his cheeks getting hot. Normally Jesse doesn’t even think about it any more, and the rare times he does think about it, he’s at least got his shit together enough that it’s when he’s _alone_.

As a last resort, he dredges up the old, humiliating memories: Gabe laughing in his face the first time, the look of outright horror the second time. Jesse deserved both of those and more. He tells himself Gabe would look just the same now, and Jesse’d have a lot more status to lose this time. It would take a lot more work to repair it, because he’s a little too old for Gabe to dismiss it as stupid kid shit.

“What’s got you squirming?” Gabe asks, gruff around one of Jesse’s smokes. “You rattled?”

Jesse laughs a little bit, because he _is_ rattled, but not the way Gabe means. Gabe’s just making sure Jesse’s head’s on straight after the mission. “No, I’m good.” Gabe looks skeptical as hell, and Jesse’s cheeks might be on fire by now. Later he’ll blame the knot in his stomach made by his exhaustion and discomfort and the alcohol, but he says, “Just don’t know what the point is, if y’all are always arguin’.”

For a minute, Gabe looks like he’s thinking of hitting Jesse for crossing a line, but then he laughs, low and humorless. “Not that it’s your business, but we aren’t always arguing. That’s just… work-mode.”

Which makes a certain kind of sense. For Gabe, and in general. People compartmentalize all the time.

Except that Jesse knows that the work is all there really is for Gabe, because Gabe really, truly believes in what they’re doing. Gabe’s relentless in the pursuit of it. Jesse knows that what Gabe really needs is someone who shares the same vision. Jesse’s breath comes up short, and his chest feels like someone is sitting on it, and he drains the rest of his beer.

“You sure you’re good?” Gabe sounds like he’s actually concerned, like he actually cares. That’s the last thing Jesse needs right now.

“No,” Jesse admits, and Gabe should laugh, should crack some typical joke about how that’s nothing new because Jesse’s always been bugfuck crazy. But he’s just staring, the closest to soft he ever gets, and Jesse’s tired and buzzed and his chest is aching from all the things he can’t have, and he does the single most idiotic, balls-out-reckless thing he’s ever done in his life: he kisses Gabe.

He kisses Gabe and it’s like a dam breaking. It’s just a kiss, but it scratches some primal itch Jesse’s never quite been able to reach with somebody else, with sex, with any _thing_ else at all. Gabe doesn’t move, doesn’t even seem to breathe for a moment, and it’s still the best kiss Jesse’s ever had.

Then Gabe shoves him back hard against the wall, puts him literally at arms’ length. The hand on Jesse’s shoulder’s splayed so Gabe’s thumb is at his throat, and whether it’s an accident or a threat doesn’t matter because the undignified noise that leaves Jesse’s mouth isn’t appropriate to either of those possibilities. “Sorry boss,” Jesse gasps out. He forces the muscles in his face to move, smiles like he doesn’t have a care in the world about consequences. He’s gonna say more, but Gabe claps a hand over his mouth and it’s Jesse’s turn to freeze.

Gabe doesn’t look mad exactly, but he doesn’t look happy either, and Jesse can see the wheels turning behind his eyes before Gabe growls, “Adrenaline comedown, alcohol, and exhaustion. Hell of a combination. Can get to the best of us, can’t it?”

And it hurts, because of course it does, but Jesse knows this is Gabe handing him a perfect excuse. Throwing him a lifeline. He doesn’t know _why_ , but he’d be a fool not to take it. He nods.

“Nothing to make a fuss over,” Gabe says roughly, and Jesse knows it means lock it down, don’t mention it again, not even to Gabe himself. Jesse nods again and Gabe lets him go.

Gabe puts some space between them, and Jesse’s left to stew in it. He repeats Gabe’s words in his head like a mantra, like he’ll believe it if he tells himself enough. _Hell of a combination_.  _Can get to the best of us. Nothing to make a fuss over._

When the drop ship comes to collect them, Jack himself is on board to greet them. Jesse feels that like a punch in the gut: anger and jealousy and guilt and no small amount of paranoia that somehow, Jack’s just gonna look at him and know. Instead it’s like nothing’s different at all, and if Gabe spends the whole flight ignoring Jesse, it’s not really out of the ordinary. That happens sometimes after you’ve been each others’ only company for too long.

Jesse’s got plenty of time to himself to replay it over and over in his head. Long enough to realize he’s not supposed to talk about it because if he does, it’s the kind of thing that’ll get him reassigned; Blackwatch might play by their own rules, but there are still _rules_. And being right-hand man means Gabe can’t afford to lose him, not over something as stupid as Jesse forgetting how to clamp down on a stupid, childish crush.

 

IV.

 

The fourth time is the time Gabriel Reyes officially breaks Jesse’s heart.

Everything’s kind of shaky these days. There’s too many new faces now and empty spaces where the old ones should be. There’s too much changing around him. The world knows about Blackwatch, which means more often than not Jesse’s grounded, nothing to do but twiddle his thumbs and lie low. He does a few ops above-board, but the world’s starting to ask a lot of questions about Overwatch proper too.

He hasn’t fully trusted Gabe’s judgment since Venice, but he still does whatever Gabe asks of him, even if he’s not sure why half the time. Force of habit maybe. Jack’s wrong, and Gabe’s wrong, and Ana’s not here any more to set them straight. Jack and Gabe aren’t even on speaking terms with each other, and Jesse can’t tell where either of their heads are at. It makes both of them hard to predict, and that’s unsettling for a man whose job depends in part on being able to predict people. More unsettling that he can’t read folks he’s worked with for over a decade.

Truth be told, Jesse can’t stop feeling like something’s coming down the pipe, and he’s got no idea what it is or what he’s supposed to do when it does.

It’s not weird to get a late-night call to Gabe’s quarters these days. He doesn’t like meeting in his office for certain things anyway. Too many people to interrupt or come looking over their shoulders. Gabe answers the door looking like he always does lately: bags under his eyes, dark skin a little washed out so the scars on his face are more prominent. At least he took off the stupid beanie.

“All due respect boss, but you look like shit,” Jesse announces, and Gabe gives a dry laugh.

“You had a good look at that garbage on your face lately?” 

The joke should be a good sign, one that should only get better when Gabe hands him a generously poured glass of scotch, but Jesse’s still got that feeling hanging over him. They lounge on the couch, and Gabe doesn’t even chew Jesse out for putting his feet up on the coffee table. “What’s the occasion?” Jesse asks.

“Not sure yet,” Gabe says, and Jesse thinks that’s fishy as hell, but he lets it slide for now. “You look like you need a drink though.”

Jesse snorts. “I always need a drink.”

Gabe laughs again and Jesse forgets the weird anticipation for a little bit, gets caught up in having someone to talk to who really gets him. It’s like they’ve got their own language sometimes, easy to take verbal shortcuts, easy to speak with a look or a grin. It’s a nice reminder. Gabe might be an unreadable mess these days, but he is still Gabe in the end.

The peaceful feeling can’t last. Not with the way Jesse’s been feeling lately, the way he’s been waiting for the sky to fall. He finally says it out loud to Gabe, because who else is he gonna tell? “It’s like I’m waiting for an ambush, but I don’t know when or where it’s gonna happen.”

Gabe’s staring into his glass, and Jesse can see the familiar tic in his jaw. “I know the feeling,” he says after a minute. “World’s going to hell in a handbasket.”

“Yeah. Or maybe it’s just cabin fever.”

“You going stir-crazy, McCree?”

There’s something about the way that Gabe says it, the way he smiles and glances sideways, that shakes the dust off an old, stupid impulse. “Must be,” Jesse agrees blandly, eyes closed a little too long to pass it off as a blink.

“You could resign,” Gabe says, and it startles Jesse. “Find something else. No need to hole up here waiting on the world to forget us again.”

“Lemme get right on buildin’ my résumé, boss.”

Gabe snorts, but he pushes. “I mean it.”

Jesse really doesn’t know what to say to that. He takes a sip of his drink to buy himself a second. “You tryin’ to get rid of me?” he finally asks.

It’s light enough to pass for teasing, but Gabe doesn’t seem to think it’s funny. “You don’t owe us shit any more. If you’re losing your mind here, you can go.” Gabe licks his lips, a rare sign of nerves, and Jesse tries not to watch it too closely. “If you’re not happy here, you _should_ go.”

“I can’t.”

“And why not?”

Gabe’s eyes are sharp on him, intense, and it’s kinda hard to breathe. Jesse aches and he feels like a goddamn fool. _You know damn well why not_ , he wants to say, but that feels too raw. Instead he says, “’Cause if the world’s goin’ to hell, you’re gonna need someone to watch your back.”

There’s a long beat of silence, too long to be comfortable, before Gabe speaks again. “So that’s it then? Nothing’s gonna drag you away from this life, is it?”

“Not a damn thing.” It’s kind of a joke but it’s mostly plain fact. Jesse’s got nowhere else to go. No clue what he’d do or what kind of person he’d be without the job. Hard to plan far into the future when you spend as much time as he does feeling surprised you’re alive at all. “You’re stuck with me.”

Gabe laughs then shoots him another look that’s a little too sly, and Jesse’s suddenly kind of nervous and has this weird gut feeling. Then he asks the question that’s gonna haunt Jesse for years afterward: “And if you’re right and the world ends tomorrow, what are you gonna wish went differently?”

The silence that follows is so intense that Jesse can hear his own heartbeat, his own shaky breathing. He knows, just like that, that there’s no way Gabe asking him that question has any other meaning than the one that’s got Jesse’s rib cage feeling too tight, but Jesse still can’t quite believe it.

The thing is, if anybody wanted to accuse him of carrying a torch this long, he’s not even sure they’d be right. It’s not a constant thing. He’s dated other people, slept with plenty more, even had real feelings for a few of them, and not one of those endings ever directly invoked Jesse’s Gabe-shaped problem. Jesse’s more than capable of fucking up a good thing totally independent of anybody else. So it’s not like it came back to Gabe every time.

It’s just that Gabe’s the one who’s always been there when the dust settles.

It’s just that there’s this piece of Jesse that’s never gonna change, no matter how many years and relationships he buries it under, no matter how many times he manages to forget it.

He always sort of figured the matter was settled the last time. Answer’s no, always gonna be no. There’s always gonna be Jack and twenty years and Gabe’s professionalism and Jesse’s stupid, messed up past between them. But Gabe had to ask that question, and Jesse knows he can’t have forgotten.

He moves slowly so Gabe sees him coming, so Gabe has every chance to shut him down like he did the last time, before Jesse makes an even bigger mess. Gabe doesn’t shut him down though, not when Jesse sets his glass down, not when Jesse’s hand lands on his knee, not when Jesse’s mouth pauses an inch from his in a last ditch effort to stop before this gets too far.

Gabe’s the one who closes the final distance, and Jesse’s heart might actually stop for a second. At first it feels like it’s all gonna shatter if Jesse makes the wrong move, because the disbelief is still so potent. But just like before, the kiss sinks its hooks into some part of Jesse that nothing else can touch, only this time Gabe’s kissing back.

When the realization settles in that nothing’s actually going to break, Jesse stops being so hesitant. He stops worrying so much and just lets it all out, pours out every ounce of shitty teen fantasies and carefully managed adult longing, every minute spent infatuated or lusting or pining. Gabe’s clearly not prepared for exactly how much Jesse’s held back, because he gasps a little, mouth gaping open against Jesse’s between kisses, but he’s not backing down either.

Jesse pushes and pulls until Gabe’s a heavy weight on his lap, until he’s letting Jesse shove his shirt off so Jesse can finally, _finally_ dig his fingers into all that muscle, can get his mouth on as much skin as possible, can see just how well his hand fits in the small of Gabe’s back. How it fits is perfect, because of course it is.

And of course Gabe just meets his pace, in sync with Jesse automatically and all on instinct, because that’s how they’ve worked for years now. Jesse’s not sure who’s leading who when they make it to the bedroom, or whose idea it is first for it to go this way, but he’s more than happy with it. Gabe pulls his hair and talks a little dirty and laughs breathlessly, and it’s like he somehow already knows all the things Jesse likes. Everything about it feels so naturally correct that Jesse’s still not sure he’s not dreaming.

Fucking Gabe makes it feel like everything else before this was just practice. Like everything else was a cheap substitute, but this is the genuine article. Jesse leaves his brand where he can to remind them both it’s definitely real, litters Gabe’s hips and sides with bruises shaped like his fingertips, presses sucking kisses into Gabe’s neck and chest, leaves teeth marks on his shoulder, and Gabe just urges him on for every part of it, hands clasping and hips rolling and giving as good as he gets.

Jesse’s faced down mobsters and omnics and terrorists. He’s saved cities and even whole countries. Sometimes he’s even been thanked for it. And right now he thinks there’s never been a moment more gratifying than when Gabe comes, cursing through gritted teeth and all but begging for more, and all because of Jesse.

It’s the best sex he’s ever had, and he falls asleep with his mouth pressed against Gabe’s shoulder and already making plans for the next time.

When he wakes again it’s to the sight of Gabe sitting at the edge of the bed, and Jesse grins at him, still a little giddy. It dies the moment Gabe speaks. “Didn’t mean to let you fall asleep. I don’t want you getting the wrong impression.”

Something sits heavy in Jesse’s stomach, and it takes him a second before he asks, “What impression did you want me to get?” He’s still trying for that smile, but it’s harder to hold now.

“This isn’t gonna be a thing,” Gabe says, “you and me. It was alright, but—” and Jesse can’t really hear the rest, because his ears are sort of ringing and he’s concentrating on swallowing around a tongue that feels too thick, but he hears words like “rebound” and “no strings” and he knows what this is. Jesse’s given this speech before, and he’s heard it before too, but it’s never made him feel like he might throw up.

His throat’s closing up tight, but he says, “Yeah, okay,” like he actually heard any of it. “I’ll get outta your hair.” He keeps his jaw clenched while he looks for his clothes. He kinda wants to lash out, but honestly it’s on him for not asking first, for getting in way over his head without establishing any rules.

Gabe’s watching him and pretending not to, and everything about the situation’s making Jesse’s skin crawl, like there’s something he’s just not getting. He’s done the walk of shame before, but he’s never _actually_ felt ashamed by it, and something about that makes anger flare up quick and hot. It doesn’t seem right that the one who wants more should also be the one who has to set the rules of engagement, and that goes double when the other person’s _always_ been the one to set the rules between them. The anger bubbles over while Jesse’s pulling his shirt back on, then he rounds on Gabe.

“No, you know? It’s not okay,” Jesse snaps. Gabe doesn’t even have the grace to look surprised. Jesse’s hands are shaking as he tries to fasten his belt. “You can’t just—” He stops, unsure what it is Gabe _can’t just_ do, because he already did. Jesse usually doesn’t give his dignity much thought, but it’s in tatters right now and he’s not sure it gets put back together by telling someone they can’t take away something they never promised you to begin with. He doesn’t think he gets it back by walking away with his tail between his legs either, though. “You knew,” Jesse says soon as he realizes. “You knew how I felt and you didn’t even—”

“Drop the dramatics, McCree.” Gabe’s voice is cool and authoritative, same way it is when he’s focused on a mission. It’s worse than if he sounded mad. “You got what you always wanted.”

“You know good and well that’s not true.”

“I thought you’d know how to handle yourself. Don’t tell me I made a mistake.”

Jesse’s mad and hurting and really sort of confused, even if maybe he shouldn’t be. Gabe talked like the world was gonna end. Jesse wonders if he was supposed to read between the lines and _know_ that meant this was his one and only chance, some _live like you’re dying_ shit. He doesn’t stick around to ask or argue or hear anything else Gabe might have to say. He’s heard the important part anyway: it’s not what he thought it was, and maybe it shouldn’t have happened at all. Jesse books it out of there before he does something even stupider like deck Gabe or beg him to say he didn’t mean any of it.

It’s surprisingly easy to hold it together while he’s in the hallways, but he knows that’s helped by his awareness that he might stumble into other people around any given corner.

In his room, he doesn’t fall apart the way he expects. He’s a little unsteady on his feet and his eyes are burning and he feels like he’s kind of choking, but he’s not immobile. A strange calm’s settling over him, a laser focus telling him exactly what he has to do, even if his hands still shake while he does it.

Jesse’s never held onto many possessions. It takes him less than an hour to figure out what to pack. Not much more time than that to make it out of HQ and catch himself a train. He’s crossing the border into Spain before the sun goes down again, and he’s already turning over a few ideas for what to do next.

When night falls and he finally lets himself stop moving, it hits him all over again. What Gabe did. What Jesse’s done. How quick his entire life turned upside down and just how little Jesse can do about it. Leaving was the only thing that he could do, the only thing that made him feel like he had any choice at all, but now he’s really, truly alone and doesn’t know if his home’s ever gonna feel like home again.

It hurts like hell and he drinks more than is wise and he wallows in his own misery a little while, until the pressure in his chest eases and his eyes are sore and puffy and crusted in salt.

He didn’t have time to think it all through before, to turn over the details. But it strikes him partway through the bottle that his gut telling him it made no sense wasn’t just disbelief or shock or pain. It really, actually made no sense.

In all the downtime he has to spend as a passenger on one mode of transport or another, Jesse revisits it, over and over and over. Gabe spent half his life with Jack. He doesn’t do casual, far as Jesse knows, and he’s too damn cautious for it to have just been impulse, and he knows Jesse too well to believe it was gonna go any other way than it did. Gabe can be a dick sometimes but he’s not pointlessly callous. If all Gabe really wanted was a one night stand with the nearest warm body, there were a dozen people he could’ve picked without compromising his relationship with his best operative. It makes no sense, and it comes back to Jesse constantly and without warning for him to compulsively pick at, but it doesn’t change that Jesse’s angry and licking his wounds. It doesn’t make Jesse want to go back.

It takes time, but he does eventually feel a little less like shit all the time. He figures out how to stop replaying it all in his head, stops trying to solve that particular puzzle. Sometimes when his guard is down, it still comes to him unbidden, but those times get fewer and farther between.

When he sees the news, it’s been weeks since the last time he thought about it. And that particular memory’s not his first thought, actually; Jesse’s kind of screwed in the head but he’s not that broken. No, his first instinct is pure unfiltered horror. HQ’s nothing but flames and rubble. The body count’s just an estimate, nothing official to go by yet. Jesse watches the holo set almost obsessively, and it doesn’t take long for them to mention Gabe and Jack both. Presumed dead, bodies not yet found.

The world closes in around him again and he doesn’t know what to do, but his comm’s ringing, Angie’s code flashing on the screen. He makes himself pick up and talk to her slow and even, because he knows what she wants. She wants to know Jesse’s not one of the people they haven’t counted yet. Fareeha’s trying to ring through while he’s still on with Angie, and when he’s done with both there’s a text from an unknown number, but the kaomoji give away that it’s Genji. He laughs a little hysterically when he realizes that he’s been going at this all wrong, thinking he’s alone; he picked a hell of a time to figure that out, but he’s grateful that he did.

Later he’s rewatching the news clips — it’s all anybody can talk about on any channel, any paper, any blog — and the back of his neck gets cold. With it comes the kind of thought that nags even if he’s got no proof to support it. Jesse wonders if Gabe knew it was coming. If he did, Jesse wonders how Gabe knew and why Gabe didn’t warn him. He wonders if Gabe’s talk about the world ending _was_ the warning, and if it’s really a coincidence that Gabe did the one thing guaranteed to get Jesse to leave.

 

V.

 

The next time they meet, Jesse’s a different man entirely.

He’s doing alright these days. Things were dark after the bomb, and dark again when he lost his arm, but since then luck’s been on his side. He’s lived longer than he ever expected to, and he’s built up a pretty good nest egg off the bounties he’s picked up. He’s kept the law off his back and even found a sort of side gig to keep his mind occupied in his downtime. He’s not ready to run back to Overwatch, but he knows about the Recall, and there’s something like hope glowing in his chest when he thinks about it.

He indulges in a good brood sometimes, and he probably drinks too much when he does, but he’s also got friends in places he never expected, can call in favors with people who can pull all kinds of strings.

Sombra’s one of those people. She can be a pain in his ass and she’s got a vicious sense of humor, but he’s definitely met meaner sorts. He’s got to watch what he says to her, but she’s never struck him as anything worse than mercenary. Might sell him out but she won’t mean anything personal by it. She wants you to think it’s pure chaos, but there’s an order to it if you know how to look. Jesse doesn’t always know what the method to it all is, but he does know how to look and he knows there _is_ a method, and that puts him in a better position with her than most folks.

They trade, a favor for a favor. He needs her to help him set up a heist, can’t quite manage to wrangle all the intel he needs without her. In return, she needs him to meet someone and take a job.

He trusts that Sombra believes in Jesse’s usefulness too much to screw him over in any irreparable way, but when he gets to the meeting point he’s got that feeling like something’s lurking just around the corner, and he trusts that too. He keeps his hand on his gun and his back to the wall while he waits.

The anticipation makes his skin crawl, and every second that passes feels like minutes instead.

Jesse recognizes him the moment he sees him, though he’s never met him in person: Reaper. Hell of a mercenary, leaves horror stories in his wake if he lets anyone live at all. There are these fine black tendrils of smoke clinging all around him, peeking out from under his coat. He moves a little strangely but not like any omnic Jesse’s ever seen, so Jesse figures he’s human despite the strangeness. Jesse’s seen weirder; it doesn’t shake him up for long.

“Jesse McCree.” Reaper’s tone is hard to read through the modulator. Maybe that’s the point of it.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance. And you are…?” Jesse asks, just to see what gets under his skin.

It’s the last thing Jesse’s expecting, but Reaper actually laughs. And even masked by the modulator with its weird metallic growl, that laugh reaches deep down in the recesses of Jesse’s mind and rattles something loose, and Jesse’s breath catches a little bit. “Reaper’s good,” the merc says. His voice doesn’t banish the weird sense of déjà vu.

“You got a job for me?” Jesse asks, even though his heart is racing in his chest and he’s not entirely sure why. It’s not fear.

“I might,” Reaper says, and Jesse resists letting out a heavy sigh. Sometimes dealing with mercenaries’ cageyness can be so tedious. “Consider this the interview.”

Reaper moves a little, and Jesse catches sight of the guns at his belt, and Jesse _knows_ , just like that. Maybe his gut’s known the whole time. “A little impersonal to leave the mask on for an interview,” Jesse jokes past his tight throat, and Reaper gives another of those dry, familiar laughs. “You’ve seen my face. Seems only fair to show me yours.” Jesse laughs too on a little bubble of shaky nerves, an old, old memory creeping up from where it was buried. “Even Stevens.”

Reaper freezes. He knows that Jesse knows. That much is obvious even with the mask on. But Jesse doesn’t truly believe until the mask is off, until he’s staring into Gabe’s bloodshot eyes and scarred, grayed out face. It hits Jesse so hard he’s surprised he’s still on his feet.

“You’re s’posed to be dead,” Jesse says kinda stupidly.

Gabe laughs again, and neither the sight nor sound of it is pretty. “Surprise,” he says wryly. His voice doesn’t grate as bad as with the modulator, but it’s rough and creaky and doesn’t quite sound like it used to.

“You knew it was comin’. The bomb. Did you set it off yourself?”

“No,” Gabe answers. “I knew something was coming, though.”

It brings up an old pang, but now that Jesse’s getting his bearings, it hurts less than he thinks it should. Doesn’t create any new wounds, just reminds him of old ones. “Why’d you— why didn’t you tell me?”

“You would have stayed.” The confirmation doesn’t surprise him. He had that hunch years ago. Still, it’s nice to know for sure. Puts some of the old injuries into perspective.

“So that’s it, huh?” Jesse asks, more bitterly than he means to. “You saved my life, and now you’re cashin’ in on it?”

“It’s not about who owes who,” Gabe says. It’s not gentle. Jesse doesn’t know what it is. In the silence that follows, Jesse has time to realize the smoke’s not just curling around Gabe; it’s coming out of his skin. It moves like it’s perturbed. “I’m gonna need you for what’s coming, McCree.”

There’s a part of Jesse that wants to say no just for spite. But he’s too curious for his own good, and even if it doesn’t have the same effect as it used to, it’s still Gabe asking. Jesse always did like Gabe’s vision. “What’s the plan then, boss?” Jesse asks like he’s twenty-five again and still Gabe’s right-hand man.

He’s not gonna agree to anything without good intel; he’s worked too long on his own to be left in the dark and just take orders. But he can listen, and with the realization that all his old pining is firmly in the past, he can judge with a clear head.

Gabe’s still persuasive.

In some ways what they’re doing’s gonna be more dangerous than Blackwatch, because Talon’s a whole lot more organized now than they ever were before. It’s gonna take a lot more lying too, and Jesse’s gonna have to do most of it. He wonders just how many secrets Gabe juggled when he did this shit alone. But in other ways it’s gonna be easier, because it dovetails just right with the plans Jesse’s already made. In sync like they’ve always been, even if Jesse changed more than he expected to.

Jesse’s still got a few things to put in order, but he doesn’t think there’s any harm in shooting Winston a message to let him know Jesse’ll be there soon enough.


End file.
